


Worlds in Collision

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, M/M, au meme, running the gamut from cute to disturbing, too many elements to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So many AUs, so little time. </p><p>I wrote a passel of fics and ficlets for <a href="http://onehotsummer.tumblr.com/post/94881771905/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-write-a-short-fic">this meme</a>, and here they all are in one place.</p><p>One was published already as "Holding Cell" and one is part of a longer WIP, but besides those two, these are all of them. I'll add as I continue with the requests (and if you want to request one, just send me an ask).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Geology Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> For [drownedbyyourstandards](http://archiveofourown.org/users/drownedbyyourstandards/pseuds/drownedbyyourstandards), whose request was "tourist/knowledgeable local AU."

“We’re almost going to miss the game, Dad!”  
  
The young lady with the long straw-colored hair leaned over her father’s arm, looking at a map. Davos, at a sidewalk table eating a late lunch, suppressed a smirk. More tourists, in town for college week and Nebraska football most likely, but unfortunately this pair was so far from the university’s Memorial Stadium that they’d never make it for kickoff. As a professor with a love-hate relationship with the athletic department that kept the entire system afloat, Davos always wondered whether he should or should not assist such naifs to their intended destination or stay out of it.  
  
“Shireen,” said the girl’s father. Davos was surprised at the voice — gravelly, tight, like a knife over a whetsone, but there was something soft in it as well. “I can’t concentrate if you’re panicking. I will look again at this map, and we will figure out where we’re going. But I’m going to need you to be calm.”  
  
The father looked up then and Davos got the impression that he was almost unconsciously looking for help. He was a shockingly attractive man; Davos felt his stomach swoop, just looking at him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told himself with a little shake. The man was here with his daughter. And that daughter deserved to see a Husker football game.  
  
“Excuse me,” Davos said, getting up. “Can I help?”  
  
“We’re looking for the stadium,” said the father and daughter at the same time. “And we only have a few minutes to get there,” added Shireen in a voice that was indeed distinctly panicky.  
  
“Not much happens in the beginning,” Davos reassured her. This was sometimes true, but it also depended on what you were there to see. Pageantry did happen. Scoring, not so much — not with this group of players.  
  
He pointed down the street. “You go down O Street six blocks. Turn right on 11th, then follow it into campus, then follow the people in red. You can’t miss it.”  
  
Shireen’s father looked incredulous. Davos wondered if he had ever been to this city before. You really couldn’t miss Memorial Stadium, even if you tried — and he had been trying for almost twenty years.  
  
“Look,” he said, leaning in over the map. He could smell the other man’s aftershave, and maybe his sweat, from walking all over humid Lincoln in the still-warm early fall. “This is where we are. This is Bessey Hall. I teach there. When you’re in front of it, you see the back of the stadium. Follow it around, and you’ll get to the entrance. All right?”  
  
“You’re a professor here?” Shireen asked. “What do you teach?”  
  
“Geology. Twenty-two years this month.”  
  
“What an interesting coincidence,” said her father. “That’s one of the things Shireen is considering studying.”  
  
“Geology _rocks_!” said Shireen, wide grin sparkling. Nobody could help groaning at the horrible pun, but it was her father Davos watched when he next spoke.  
  
“If you don’t mind being a little later to the game, I can settle up here and walk you through the building on your way,” he offered. “The pizza here, by the way, is excellent. If you end up coming to school in Lincoln you’ll know it well.”  
  
“Thank you, that would be very kind,” said Shireen’s father. “I’m Stannis Baratheon, and of course, this is my daughter Shireen.”  
  
“Davos Seaworth,” the professor answered, shaking the proffered hand.  
  
“We’re looking at Midwest colleges this summer, but this one just a couple of hours from my home, so we’re leaning fairly heavily toward it,” Stannis said.  
  
 _My home_ — that didn’t escape Davos’ notice as he paid for his pizza and gathered up his messenger bag. Nor did Shireen’s surprised response.  
  
“We are?”  
  
“We are,” said Stannis Baratheon firmly.


	2. Mere Technicalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [plinys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys), who requested "going through a divorce AU."

"Just so you know, I still don’t like it."

"Neither of us likes it. Nobody likes it."

"Selyse and Melisandre like it."

"Obviously. … Marya hates it. You told me she hates it."

"Marya understands that it’s the right thing to do, though."

"You two went through this years ago. She has no idea of the paperwork it entails now. Could you believe this lawyer is insisting that someone file papers on us separately? As if we’re one of those couples who would be at odds about something like splitting up our assets or … It’s horrible. Degrading. Why are you laughing?"

"We’re getting divorced. We’re supposed to be at odds."

"This is not funny. Stop laughing. Stop trying to make me laugh! Stop tickling me. We’re getting divorced and you aren’t supposed to tickle me _or do that either_.”

"I’m sure there are lots of things I’m not supposed to be doing, now that we’re getting a divorce. Like this."

"Definitely not that."

"Or this…"

"If you’re going to do _that_ , at least do it over… yes. Right there.”

"Mm-hm. So where were we? Fighting over our pool? Deciding who gets the Rolls Royces?"

"I believe that would be Rollses Royce … no, that doesn’t sound right either … I can’t concentrate with you doing that."

"How many Rollses Royces do we have? Six?"

"However many you want."

"Can I have them all?"

"Every one if you don’t stop what you’re doing. Please don’t stop."

[Later…]

"This still doesn’t make me feel better about this."

"You look like you feel better."

"Hmph. It is not our fault that Selyse and Melisandre can’t find jobs with health insurance to save their lives. And we don’t necessarily have to clean up every mess they find themselves in."

"Speaking of cleaning up… can you hand me that washcloth? Thanks."

"So now _we_ have to give up _our_ carefully constructed lives, divorce, marry them so that  _they_ can get  _our_ insurance and benefits —”

"Did we ever decide who’s getting who?"

"Whom."

"Selyse and Mel—"

"It’s ‘who’s getting whom’."

"Mm. Okay. Did we decide? Which sounds better, Selyse Baratheon or Selyse Seaworth?"

"You think they would to take our last names?!"

"No, I’m kidding, love. Of course they aren’t. I think you’d better take Mel. She likes you more than me."

"She does?"

"They both do. Bet they’d turn straight for you if you just—"

"Stop it this instant, Davos Seaworth. I will not listen to this."

"Will she sleep on my side of the bed?"

"That’s enough of that."

"Will she get my pillow? I’m taking my pillow to their house. I’ll sleep on _her_ side of _her_ bed. See how she likes it.”

"You’d sleep in a bed with Selyse?"

"She’s going to be my wife. We must do our duty, as you would say. Stannis! Are you jealous?"

"Of course not. But _would_ you?”

"Only if you were there. … You look like you like that idea."

"It’s … not something I had considered. But if we were to sleep in a bed with Selyse, we couldn’t exclude her wife."

"Melisandre is _your_ wife!”

"Hells, you’re right. It would feel wrong to exclude her."

"So fair. So just."

"You’re making fun of me. Be quiet."

"Stannis?"

"Yes?"

"I don’t want to sleep with Selyse. I don’t want to marry Selyse. I don’t want to marry Mel or for you to marry Mel. I want them to stay married and I want to stay married to _you_.”

"I know, Davos. It’s only for a little while."

"Do you promise?"

"Until they get on their feet."

"No moving in?"

"Absolutely no moving in."

"I don’t want someone else driving my Rolls…es."

"I would never allow it. It’s late and we need to be up for the lawyer in the morning. … You know this is the right thing, Davos."

"I know."

"Marya is right. Do you know what she told me once?"

"What?"

"That you were the most honorable man she had ever known. That’s not the only reason I love you, but it’s what made me realize I did."

"Stop, you’re inflating my ego."

"It needs it. Listen to me, because you know I keep my word. Only for a little while, then everything will be back as it was. I will never stop loving you. I will never not be wed to you in my heart. No matter what some bureaucrats say."

"Listen to you, raging against the corporate Man!"

"You’re rubbing off on me. In more ways than one. Good night, Davos."

"Good night, Stannis. … … I won’t let Selyse use your razor on her legs. _Or_ drive your Lambo.”

"Is this some kind of euphemism?… I don’t want to know. Good _night_.”

"Good night, love."


	3. One Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [coervus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coervus/pseuds/coervus), who requested "waking up with amnesia AU."

Dr. Davos Seaworth checked his calendar for the day. Two new patients, including one with an unspecified brain injury. _Uh-oh_. That could be dicey. He checked the file the patient’s neurologist had emailed over — a 45-year-old man who had suffered an unknown head injury and become unconscious. When he woke up, he had suffered “significant memory loss.” The surgeon and neurologist were referring him to Davos for physical therapy due to loss of motor function.   
  
“Funny guy,” the doctor had appended. “Smart, outspoken. Wife insists ‘he’s not like this’. Often forgets right/left, etc., but laughs it off.”  
  
That was all Davos had time for. After lunch, he saw the man who had lost his hand in Iraq and was having trouble adjusting to the prosthetic, and then came the amnesia patient.  
  
He was indeed a man with a sense of humor. He practically radiated a gregariousness that Davos rarely saw in patients who visited his office.  
  
“They say I’m Stannis Baratheon,” said the patient, taking Davos’ hand in a firm handshake. “But hell — how would I know?”  
  
“Stannis, come on,” said the wife, clearly fed up with this. Davos sympathized. Although the patient was brightening his day with his good mood, Davos could see how it could get tiring.   
  
“He was never like this,” continued Selyse Baratheon. “He’s quiet … serious … very introverted. _Now_ look.” She threw her hands up in despair.  
  
“Yes, _please_ look, doc,” put in Stannis. “I mean, it’s not as though I’m not looking at you.”  
  
Davos did a double-take. Surely he wasn’t … no, this was a patient, and a married, amnesiac one at that. But there was no mistaking the bright flush in Stannis’ cheeks, and the way his eyes travelled appraisingly up and down Davos’ body. In a strange way, Davos was glad he hadn’t worn his coat today.  
  
“He’s been doing this since he woke up,” said Selyse, despairingly. “He flirts with men — constantly.”   
  
There was no way to address this that wasn’t awkward. “Was he not …”  
  
“No.” Selyse was definitive and Davos had no choice but to believe her.  
  
“Evidently, I liked the ladies before whatever happened … happened,” said Stannis. “But now I’ve seen the error of my ways. Selyse, love, you’ve been great, but we really have to talk about this straight-marriage thing. Especially now that I’ve met you,” and his blue eyes flashed to Davos again.  
  
“Not _now_ , Stannis!”  
  
Davos intervened, quickly. “I understand there’s been a problem with some of your husband’s motor functions,” he said.   
  
“Oh, God,” Stannis groaned. “Please don’t call me her husband.”  
  
“ _You are my husband!_ ”  
  
“And Dr. Seaworth, when you’re talking about me, talk _to me_.” For a moment, Stannis looked — almost — the stern, severe man his wife said he was before his injury. Davos quickly scanned him. There was no sign of any injury at all, no swelling, no signs of a fall or a struggle. Of course, anything could happen internally without outward evidence. But still …  
  
  
That night at dinner with Melisandre, Davos briefly sketched out the visit, and the man’s strange behavior.   
  
“You think he’s faking it,” Mel said, sipping her wine.  
  
“Yeah. It doesn’t add up. There aren’t any motor problems. He makes them up as he goes along.”  
  
“You think he did this whole thing to get out of his marriage? Or the closet?”  
  
“Both. Either. And also to get out of his rut. His wife kept saying, basically, what a buttoned-up asshole he is. I think he couldn’t figure any other way out.”  
  
“Mm. And he left you his number in the pocket of the hospital gown, you said.”  
  
Davos turned as red as Melisandre’s hair. “Yes.”  
  
“Are you going to call him?”  
  
He took a long drink of his own wine, steadying himself, as much for himself as for Mel. “I’m going to call him to tell him I’m referring him to another physical therapist.”  
  
“And when he asks you out?”  
  
“ _When_?”  
  
“He’s going to ask you out.”  
  
Davos felt his heartbeat quicken. That one glimpse of the Stannis that was, plus the desperately uninhibited Stannis that he was pretending to be — something there called to Davos and made him want to help this man find himself.

But not in the confines of a doctor’s office.

"That’s why I’m referring him to another doctor," Davos said. He smiled faintly, and drained his glass.


	4. If on a winter's day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [starsunk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsunk), who requested "met on a train AU."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a New Yorker cover, Italo Calvino, and Manhattan in February.

Stannis looked up in surprise as the train pulled to a halt. He had been so engrossed in his book that he’d lost track of the stations, something he hadn’t done in nearly 40 years of riding trains in New York City. FULTON ST read the signature mosaic sign, whose kind graced the city’s subway system, and Stannis knew he hadn’t yet gone too far.  
  
He looked idly out the window of the train, into the windows of the train on the opposite track, going in the opposite direction. A man in a grey hat and brown scarf was spending the moment in the same way. When he caught Stannis’ eye through the two sets of smudged windows he gave him a crinkly grin, which Stannis did not return out of mere surprise rather than rudeness. The other man shrugged, looking back down at his own book and then Stannis noticed that book’s cover: off-white, green deco lettering filling most of the top half and then a black and white sketch below. Stannis stared at his own— the same. _If on a winter’s night a traveller_ by Italo Calvino. _In a network of lines that enlace_ was the last chapter he’d read: the subway map, blurred colorfully in his peripheral vision, sharpened into meaning, the words on the page he had been reading and on the station walls crumbled down into something he could only put back together with help.   
  
Stannis turned to look once more at the reader on the other train, and then leapt up, eyes wild, and fled out the closing doors. He had left his umbrella, his coat: of no consequence. The trains crept apart. Only that mattered. His hand clutched the dog-eared book and his legs propelled him forward. He would sprint through the marble corridors of City Hall if he had to, his footsteps would echo and carom around the dome and call the reader back to him.


	5. A Somewhat Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Hedge_witch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedge_witch/pseuds/Hedge_witch), who requested "met online AU." (1/2)

We met on the Internet.

_Not a dating site._

No, the actual Internet. We were in a writing group together.

_An online short-story critique group._

Except Stannis forgot how to critique.

_When I read your first story I forgot how to do anything, including breathe._

It was about two women.

_It’s not my usual preference._

A romantic, sexual awakening type thing. It was pure, self-indulgent fluff. I was writing it to distract myself from my shitty job.

_Thank God for the job._

Your comments were better than my story.

_Your writing was transcendent._

He sent me the most … intense, heartfelt comment, and then it just snowballed from there …

_I’d like to have it stated for the record that before this group, I did not know the alternate meaning of that word._

Want to find out if you like it?

_Would you do that?_

No. Would you?

_Of course not._

Anyway, after a few weeks we stopped talking about writing so much …

_… and just talked. I had never had such a connection with anyone._

It didn’t matter that we were across an ocean or two. It was like you were there.

_Except I wasn’t._

No. Not then.

_But you asked me to come see you._

I did. You came. You were nothing like I expected.

_In what way?_

I can’t describe it.

_You’re a writer. Try._

You’re a writer too. You try!

_You were alive, when everything else in my life was in stasis._

And you say you can’t write.

_I just say I can’t write as well as you._

Then, Stannis took my characters, the women in my story, and wrote about them himself. It was incredible.

_It was?_

My hand to God, it was. When you wrote them kissing for the first time, it was like you were kissing me.

_That is what I meant by writing it._

And all the rest of the stuff you wrote them doing?

_All of it._

And then he left.

_It broke me to leave you. I couldn’t stand it, day after day, until I knew you were coming to me._

So I went to him. And I stayed. There was nothing to leave behind. Furniture, a job… nothing important, nothing like leaving your heart in another person’s bed, another home. 

_We made a life here._

We still write.

_We still read each other’s writing._

Stannis is learning to critique …

_… Davos is learning to take it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's fairly autobiographical, so that's why it's a Somewhat Story. ;)


	6. Communion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Hedge_witch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedge_witch/pseuds/Hedge_witch) and 247reader, who both requested "two miserable people at a wedding AU."

It was hard to be sure, but Stannis could have sworn he heard a distinct if muffled “fuck!” from the row in front of him. He glared daggers at the nape of the neck belonging to the blasphemer — a middle-aged man, if the hair color was anything to go by — wearing a collared shirt that seemed to fit uncomfortably around the throat. As the mass droned on — and this priest did have a terribly monotonous voice — Stannis found his gaze drawn back again and again to where the trails of short salt-and-pepper hair made their way down into the collar. Soon enough he would know who this was, the man who had dared to curse during Stannis’ niece’s wedding.  
  
If he could even call her a niece, he thought bitterly. Myrcella Baratheon was a pleasant enough girl and played nicely with his Shireen, but her parentage had come under a certain horrifying amount of scrutiny. Stannis hoped she could put all the rumors and whispers behind her and begin her new life with her bridegroom, Trystane Martell. His family — black-haired as any Baratheon, where Myrcella’s hair was a golden blonde — filled half the church, olive skinned and dark-eyed and lustily talking. Stannis stole a glance at his watch. One hour down.  
  
Stannis occupied himself by looking at the wedding party. Myrcella’s bridesmaids were numerous and beautiful to a girl: Margaery Tyrell, Jeyne Westerling, Sansa Stark, a dark full-figured woman who could only be a Martell — and in the place of honor, Shireen, of course, with her long hair falling over her scarred cheek and her eyes shining. Stannis found himself almost choked up looking at her. She was growing up so quickly. To head off this startling sentiment he drew his attention to Trystane’s attendants, whom he knew fewer of. There were two dusky Martells — one surely Trystane’s brother Quentyn — as well as Tommen Baratheon, Robb Stark, and a sandy-haired young man Stannis had never seen before. He stifled a yawn, looked back at his daughter and saw to his shocked horror that she was gazing raptly at the strange boy, evident even from the third row back. Stannis felt his stomach twist unpleasantly. It _couldn’t_ be his little girl making eyes at some groomsman. Suddenly, sitting in the pew, he felt as if his life had moved far too quickly — Shireen was nearly an adult, and Stannis’ life was stagnant as the dusty stained glass windows. The choir belted out praise songs gloriously but Stannis was a lump of misery on the hard bench.  
  
—  
  
Davos Seaworth limped to the reception table, feeling distinctly out of place sitting there with his son making eyes at the maid of honor and deciding that a drink was probably the best remedy. He’d been through this before — every one of his sons had been girl-crazy since puberty, even pious Matthos — but Devan was the one who had never dated, who had only had friends who played soccer and video games. Now Davos saw it, though — the look on Devan’s face when he spoke to the beautiful girl with the scars that she tried to hide behind a curtain of hair. It was the same as he’d seen on Dale, Allard, Matthos, Maric. The cycle goes on, he told himself. _And don’t start getting sentimental just because you’re at a wedding_. He winced with pain in his knees and foot as he picked up a flute of champagne.  
  
It was contrary to Davos’ nature to drink alone and it seemed unlucky to sip champagne at a wedding without toasting at least one other person, so he looked around for anyone with whom to clink a glass. A tall man hovered uncertainly near the desserts, looking as if he were waiting for someone to talk to but he didn’t know quite who. He had a glass in his hand — rocks, amber liquor — so Davos approached, still limping, and smiled in introduction. “Cheers,” he said, holding up his glass.  
  
“Oh — yes — to be sure,” said the man in some confusion. “Likewise. … To Myrcella and Trystane.”

“Myrcella and Trystane,” Davos murmured. They touched glasses and Davos took a sip. It was good, southern champagne, the kind Devan said was everywhere in Dorne where Trystane was from. The boys had been placed together as roommates in college and, though as different as they could be, grew to become fast friends. When Trystane said he had met and proposed to a King’s Landing girl, Devan had teased that he was punching above his weight but then told his friend where the best views of the bay were from the top of the capitol’s hills, and when he told Devan he was going to have to escort the only bridesmaid that wasn’t already “claimed” by another of his groomsmen, who had looked them all up on Facebook, Devan had agreed cheerfully. He did not have time to look up Shireen Baratheon before the wedding, but when he saw her, he was glad that the other four were so much more glamorous.  
  
Davos knew all this because he knew his son’s quiet ways as well as his own. He watched Shireen and Devan talking, saw Shireen’s shy smile answer Devan’s ready one. Then he noticed the other man had not moved or found anyone else to talk to yet.  
  
“My daughter,” he said, shaking his head. “Sometimes I just can’t believe how fast the years go.”  
  
Davos laughed and pointed with the hand holding his glass. “My son,” he said. “It seems we may need to be introduced. I’m Davos Seaworth. That young scoundrel is Devan.” He looked around for a place to set his glass down to shake the other man’s hand, and when he turned to do so, he winced again as he put weight on his injured foot.  
  
“I’m Stannis Baratheon and that is my daughter Shireen. Are you quite all right—?” Stannis broke off so quickly that Davos looked up, confused.  
  
“You … were sitting in front of me,” Stannis said slowly, sounding half accusing, half perplexed. “You said ‘fuck’ during the ceremony.”  
  
Davos broke into a wide grin. “Guilty as charged,” he said.  
  
“But why? Why _ever_ …?”  
  
“Devan warned me,” Davos said mournfully. “He told me I should go to at least one Catholic service before this.”  
  
Stannis said nothing, just stared.  
  
“But I didn’t. And there was all the kneeling, getting up, sitting down — well, the bloody bench hit me in the foot first. And then I knelt, too late, of course. When I did that, they were lifting it up again, and it got me in both knees. And so that just … slipped out, you might say. I was hoping no one heard.”  
  
“I heard,” Stannis said, but the very corner of his mouth was quirked in something resembling a smile and Davos knew he was out of the doghouse. Good thing, too, if Devan was going to be starting up with his daughter. Those two had not stopped talking yet.  
  
“I’m sorry for that,” Davos said. “I hope it didn’t disturb your enjoyment of the wedding.”  
  
“I wasn’t enjoying it anyway,” said Stannis, in what Davos was beginning to realize was his signature bluntness. “It went on too long and the priest’s voice is too monotonous and my daughter is growing up too quickly.” He drained his glass, turned to Davos, and gestured toward a chair. “You sit down there. Another drink?”  
  
Obediently, Davos sat. “Yes, sir,” he said, and saw Stannis’ eyes contract and darken at the words. He smiled broadly. Time was passing, children were growing up and getting married, and he would _love_ if Devan saw more of Shireen. “Another drink would be wonderful.”


	7. Pushing the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [CommaSplice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CommaSplice/pseuds/CommaSplice), who requested "ghost/living person AU."

The cereal boxes stood like bright cardboard sentinels in order of height, the newspapers were neatly stacked on the table in descending order of publication date, and Davos’ socks were rolled in pristine spirals in their drawer. Dale, Davos thought, must have had a hell of a date with his girlfriend. Or Allard got into the Ritalin again. Or Devan was bored. He smiled fondly as he removed a pair of socks and put them on: dark green argyle that felt good against his feet and ankles. Davos would find out which son it was and thank him after breakfast.  
  
When none of them fessed up Davos decided they were too embarrassed but wanted to take care of him a little after the divorce. Davos had ended up moving out, into a house that was far too large even if all five boys visited each weekend. It was a short sale, affordable, close enough to the house he’d shared with Marya to be able to see his sons … but not too close, not close enough to run into her and her new guy at the coffee shop or in Target. The map of safe zones became more detailed in his mind and his scope of travel shrunk to the point where he hardly wanted to go out in the front yard: what if they came by?  
  
He felt ineffably haunted by the split: the spectre of the boyfriend, the sound of Marya’s Ford Taurus that was never really hers, the little things she used to do for him, now up to one of the sons but admitted by none of them. Who had put his sugar cubes in the door where it would make the most sense to get them? When he had left his windows down one balmy night, who had rolled them up before the four a.m. dew could get inside? Marya used to do rounds in the house, checking beds and windows, and sometimes Davos would hear her outside locking up the cars, the gingerly slammed door a comforting echo in the silence of the neighborhood.  
  
But that was the old house, and the driveway where the boyfriend’s car sat. Yet someone had rolled up his window between one and four in the morning without closing the door and someone had finished the Sunday Times crossword and someone had stacked his socks and even his work shirts neatly and someone had put out the ripest peach for him, on the cutting board for breakfast where he’d be sure to find it.  
  
It was Thursday the day he discovered the peach. The boys had not been over since the previous weekend. Dale had a key, as did Marya — so it must have been one of them, trying to make things as they were, trying to make sure this suddenly old bachelor didn’t lose too much of his humanity in his increasing solitude.   
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw someone — something — forcefully give a shake of the head. A single shake, as if to say _No_. No, of course — it was not Marya, nor Dale, that motion told him even as he whipped his own head around to look where the movement had come from. The kitchen was empty, but the steam rose from the tea. Had he put the kettle on? When had he done it?   
  
The shortening days settled into a snowy rhythm while the house enfolded him in familiarity. No, Marya would not have been interested in cleaning his boots that way, and his sons wouldn’t have noticed the road salt caked on the soles and spattered up onto the cracked, dark grey leather. The butter was out of the refrigerator at the perfect temperature for spreading on toast, vegetables didn’t rot in the crisper, the endless catalogs and junk mail that came from the previous occupants was swept up from where Davos had strewn it across the table when a cold wind blew him in. His socks pinwheeled in the drawer. The winter wore on.  
  
Davos lay in bed one night shivering cold, with with loneliness or insomnia or illness he was not sure. He stumbled up; the clock read 3:56. He was possessed by a wild instinct to go see if someone was checking his car windows, and just as he got to the front door a shadow seemed to disappear around the corner of the house.   
  
“Wait,” Davos said weakly to an empty house. “Wait.”  
  
It was almost time to get up for work, so he got into the shower, turning the hot water up as high as it would go and feeling his skin reddening under the onslaught. He was rinsing his hair when through eyes blurred with shampoo and water he saw a motion in the corner of the room. He blinked rapidly, pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked again: no one.   
  
“I’m losing it,” he said aloud. “Going completely off my rocker.”  
  
 _No._  
  
Where had it come from? It was a voice, but written in the steam of the shower, just that word like the time before: No.  
  
“Yes, I am,” Davos said back. “I’m imagining people in my house. That’s nuts.”  
  
 _Not people. Just person._  
  
“Person?”  
  
 _Davos_ …  
  
“How in the Christ do you know my name?” The water was cooling, but Davos didn’t move. He sensed the shadow of a wry smile. _I pick up your mail every day from the hallway._  
  
“Thank you,” said Davos before realizing how absurd that sounded. “So you’re a …”  
  
 _Stannis._  
  
“You’re a Stannis.”  
  
 _I am … I was._  
  
“You’re dead.”  
  
 _I suppose._  
  
Davos’ skin, the shower, the room was cold now, goosebumpy and shaking.   
  
“Make it warmer,” he said. “Or I can’t stay here.”  
  
The water heated up, pounding on Davos’ back and neck and legs.

 _Better?_  
  
“Why do you do this? All these things for me?”  
  
Awkward silence — silence from a silent being.  
  
“Will you stay?”  
  
 _Where else can I go?_  
  
“Where do you want to be? Do you want to stay?”  
  
 _You need me here. I need to be here. I want to be … here. With you._  
  
“Will you tell me everything?”  
  
 _Everything_ , Davos heard through the mist.


	8. WordPress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Serpentsign](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpentsign/pseuds/Serpentsign), who requested "met online AU." (2/2)

**lifeinthedatamines.wordpress.com**  
  
 _February 19, 2014._  
  
My neighbor’s television has kept me up until 10:47 again. I asked him to kindly turn it off at 10:30 p.m. so that I could sleep, because with those larger-than-life, high-definition people on the wall-sized screen shining into my bedroom, I must admit I feel a bit exhibitionist — even though all I do in bed is sleep, of course.  
  
No, of course I don’t blog in bed. That’s poor sleep hygiene.  
  
Work continues apace. I must remind my team again that the appropriate parlace in my department is “time,” not “bandwidth.” i.e. “Do you have the bandwidth for this project?” “No,” comes my answer. “Do I look like a modem?”  
  
Half of them don’t know what a modem is without an audio aid, and I do not exaggerate.  
  
  
 _February 20, 2014._  
  
He is watching a movie. I can see Michael Fassbender’s face in greater detail than even I think necessary, and Fassbender is an adequately attractive man. I never want to see anyone’s pores that close, though. I was going to append an “unless” clause, but I can’t think of an instance where this would be necessary.  
  
At work we had the “bandwidth” meeting, and the next thing one of my reports does thereafter is ask me if he can “reach out” to a colleague regarding a report. I will now need to schedule a meeting to discuss the proper use of the terms e-mail, telephone, or visit: or, God forbid, “speak to.”  
  
  
 _February 21, 2014._  
  
“Reach out” meeting was vetoed by my supervisor. He thinks this is an invalid concern and says that the terminology is common parlance among our peers. That exactly is the problem. Why should we drop to that level?  
  
The neighbor is watching soccer. I apologize, European readers: I mean football.   
  
I jest. This blog has no European readers. I doubt that it has readers at all.  
  
  
 _February 22, 2014._

Reader(s), I stand corrected. A European passerby reached out and informed me that he was, indeed, following these written chronicles and appreciated my use of the proper, as he puts it, term for the particular sport.

  
Movie again tonight next door. I can’t recognize the actors, but perhaps if I take a photograph someone will be able to identify it.  
  
[NextDoorMovie.jpg]  
  
It is so loud that I can hear it through my double-paned Pella windows. There is no use complaining. I visited again this morning and the man said I don’t have to pay for cable so I don’t have any case against him. ???  
  
  
 _February 23, 2014._  
  
Thanks go out to Davos from Dublin, who returned once more to comment on last night’s entry and tell me that the movie playing last night was called “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.” I have read some le Carré but not this particular work nor did I know it was adapted into a movie, although I should not be surprised. Doesn’t everything have to be cross-marketed these days? Regardless, I do appreciate the assistance.  
  
Football on again tonight. I’m not sure I will ever understand the rules of time, but everything else is fairly transparent, at least as yet. Why say the halves are a certain number of minutes when time can then be added later — as much as deemed necessary? By whom? Which ruling body? And who decides about these horrendous uniforms? I never want to see a man in bright neon green sprinting across a bright neon green field again. I suppose I could draw my curtains but I haven’t anything better to do.    
  
I ran out of milk tonight and had to walk to the gas station at 11:30 p.m. for a bottle of it. The scum of the earth congregates at that AM/PM, I must say. There was a drug deal occurring under my very nose. I informed them I could easily call the police and the man with the bag looked me over, cursed me out — I will not report what he said — and continued about his business. I continued about my errand, returned home, checked my e-mail and by the time I had finished reading about Tinker Tailor, I had forgotten to inform the authorities. Very distractable of me, but in my defense, it was nearly midnight.  
  
Meeting tomorrow about the number of meetings I’ve been calling. ???  
  
  
 _February 24, 2014._  
  
I appreciate the efforts of Davos from Dublin, who sent a long, entertaining missive about the rules of “footie” and the vagaries thereof, as well as a diversion into the uniforms. I will respond at greater length via e-mail but wished to give proper credit publicly.   
  
Work continues. The meeting about meetings was a hoax; I showed up, legal pad and pen at the ready, and when no one appeared after fifteen minutes I contacted my administrative assistant, who had set the event up in our calendars, but she and several subordinates just giggled and tried to CYA (this is a corporate acronym they all use). I said nothing; what good would it do? I left the office in a rather angered state and had to go to a nearby Starbucks to eat and compose myself. What happened there was less than pleasant as well. The shop had run out of plain croissants, so when I asked for a croissant, they gave me a chocolate croissant which in my opinion is a crime against pastry, but I did not notice until I took a bite. “Good Lord,” I said, at which point a woman at the next table proceeded to harangue me for swearing in front of her children.  
  
All in all it has not been the most pleasant day save for my correspondence. I am glad to watch the silly teen movie playing next door.  
  


 _February 25, 2014._  
  
I awoke in a foul mood, left over from the night before, but in my e-mail was a cheering missive from Davos in Dublin about a Starbucks mishap of his own while visiting the U.S. as well as several amusing, if shocking, epithets directed toward my administrative assistant. She tries, Davos, she tries. But I must attribute this only to malice.   
  
Where were you visiting in the U.S. and how often do you return?  
  
  
 _February 28, 2014._  
  
I have been absent, but as there is only one reader of this blog and I have been engaged in private correspondence with aforesaid reader, I don’t believe I truly owe much of an apology. Davos in Dublin has a way with words to make even the direst situations seem laughable. My admin stared when I said to her what you told me to say, then I saw her talking to my direct report in the kitchen and it seemed very serious. All to the better.  
  
I have asked the neighbor to turn on footie.  
  
  
 _March 8, 2014._  
  
Arsenal was wonderful on defense tonight.  
  
I sent the admin and her admin that cat macro.  
  
I have an appointment to go to the dentist next week. Write soon.  
  
  
 _March 9, 2014._  
  
No cause for alarm, except that my mouth guard, which I wear at night to prevent damage from my persistent bruxism, is no longer fitting correctly and I must get it adjusted.  
  
Arsenal were robbed.  
  
Starbucks was all right; but your latte looked better than mine, which is an unreasonable heresy being as you are in Ireland and I am in the very home of the corporation. (Come back soon.)  
  
  
 _March 20, 2014._  
  
Dentist says after follow-up that my bruxism seems to be improving. Is there less stress in my life, he asks? He is much impressed. I blame that on you.  
  
  
 _March 28, 2014._  
  
Dear readers,   
  
Davos from Dublin will be landing at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport this evening at six. He is on a business trip to the Bay Area but is stopping over here first to meet me for Starbucks. I cannot express what my thoughts are at this time, but I hope to be able to write soon.  
  
  
 _March 31, 2014._  
  
[DavosGoodLatte.jpg]  
  
[StannisSuboptimalLatte.jpg]  
  
Even in Seattle, he gets better coffee.


	9. The Burning Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Sir_Bedevere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/), who requested "living in a society where their love is taboo AU" and specified a tearjerker!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for character death that really isn't.

Stannis’ wife Selyse and Goodwife Seaworth — Marya — had been at the Starks’ next door since before sunset. It was nearly three in the morning now and though his own sturdy house was silent Stannis had no hope of falling asleep.  
  
He could hear the girl Lyanna wailing. “Too young,” he muttered to himself. He paced around, trying to escape the sound, ending up in the barn where the sounds of cattle and songbirds and the purring of farm cats comforted him and seemed to almost drown out the screams with their serene hum.   
  
Goody Seaworth’s husband Davos, the farmer who worked on the Baratheon land and lived in the adjacent cottage, was asleep in the hay there, his coat dishevelled underneath him, straw in his hair and his boots dusty. He awoke with a start and with Stannis’ gaze upon him.  
  
“G’morning,” Davos said, blinking, half smiling. The grin faded as he turned to listen. “She’s still…”  
  
“Yes,” said Stannis shortly. “Eight hours now. The women haven’t come home.”  
  
Davos’ eyes darted toward Stannis and, inexplicably, he wet his lips in a nervous way. Stannis found himself staring, unable to stop, his face burning sudden red. He had never thought of the farmer in this way, or in any way besides barren adjectives: useful, helpful, friendly. But now he was drawn toward Davos as surely as the river to the bay and like the water he wanted to cover him and drown him, and sway together as the reeds in the dark stream.   
  
“Stannis,” Davos murmured, and Stannis shuddered, the sibilants of his own name on those dry lips setting his nerves vibrating. He had no choice, no chance to resist taking the man into his arms. He had only ever touched Selyse, and Davos lacked her soft skin and wispy figure, tight waist and long smooth hair, but Stannis found himself reveling in everything that Davos had that his wife had not: the firm muscled body more solid than Stannis’, the rough skin and beard, the prickly nape of the neck and the hardness between his thighs, the guttural groan when Stannis’ hand merely grazed over it, the teeth that caught Stannis’ ear when he explored further with trembling fingers and palm.  
  
The sun was rising pink into a sky the color of blue roses when they lay together, sated and flushed. The Stark baby screamed, and Lyanna was silent.

“Asleep?” Davos whispered.

“She won’t wake,” Stannis answered into Davos’ hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to mourn. He had known the girl, but Davos was here now, warm and close in his arms, and Lyanna Stark and her babe were a thousand miles away.  
  
—  
  
The makeshift cell was warm with candles; too warm, and Stannis felt his face burning up. Suspicious townsfolk surrounded him, whispering about the farmer and the landowner and exactly who or what had possessed two men to unnatural acts in the middle of the night, just at the moment that young Lyanna was perishing in her bed of blood.   
  
“It can only be the devil,” hissed one matron. Selyse unleashed a fresh torrent of tears. She had been crying since she had discovered them, giving one sharp scream and then tears, tears born of shattered hopes and fear of God, and, Stannis thought privately, exhaustion. Davos’ wife was strangely calm, only comforting Selyse with quiet sounds when the other women’s tongues became too poisonous. Marya Seaworth deserved more, Stannis thought, than to lose her husband to this.  
  
“They’re witches,” proclaimed Petyr Baelish in his strange accent. “Male witches, very uncommon but the Good Book says it can happen.” All around, people nodded. “Witches must burn,” Baelish said, “men the same as women.”  
  
“They must burn!” shrieked Baelish’s wife.  
  
“Burn them,” agreed the crowd. Tywin Lannister and his daughter Cersei, wealthy fat Mace Tyrell, even Brandon Stark, brother of the pale dead Lyanna — they all called for blood. Selyse was near fainting, holding onto a cousin’s arm. Marya Seaworth stood with her mouth a thin line, eyes very far away. Davos was being held in a room across town with, no doubt, another mob calling for his death at this moment. Stannis was grateful Marya was here instead of witnessing that — but then Davos had to bear it alone.  
  
“I won’t stand for it,” he said, quietly, and then louder: “I shall not.”  
  
The crowd turned to him, all except Marya, who watched the candlelight flickering on the wall over his head. “I shall now confess,” he pronounced.  
  
“Go on, then,” said Baelish, predatory and excited.  
  
“Davos Seaworth is innocent,” Stannis said. He willed the tremor from his voice. “Hear me, he is innocent. I, Stannis Baratheon, coerced him into unnatural acts.” _The most holy act in my life_.  
  
“And how did you do that?” Tywin Lannister asked.  
  
“My secrets are mine and the devil’s are the devil’s. But I swear to you with my life that Seaworth was only my unwilling victim.”  
  
“You admit, then, that you forced the farmer into sodomy?” Baelish asked, amid gasps. “That it was no will of his own?”  
  
 _It was every will of his own_ , Stannis thought. _May I remember it as I die, and may Davos guide me to God if they murder him too_.  
  
“That is correct. Hence, my life is in your hands.”  
  
“Then we will free Seaworth, and burn this witch,” said Lannister in his ringing tones. Baelish nodded his approval. “In the name of God it shall be done.”  
  
Stannis slumped onto the floor of the cell, all his strength gone. He had seen it before: the fire consuming the flesh, the screaming raw mouths and the blackened skin with its hair falling into the ashes.   
  
“Stannis,” he heard, very close to him. “Stannis, why?”  
  
Marya.   
  
He shook his head. “Take your husband and your sons and find some peaceful place in this world. Take Selyse if you can. Help her to go on.”  
  
“You’re a damned fool,” she said.   
  
“Leave me,” he told her. Afterwards, he did not speak.  
  
 —  
  
Davos jerked in anguish, crying out and nearly leaping up.  
  
“Gods! What is it?”  
  
“It …” He could not catch his breath. “The stake … the fire again.”  
  
“Oh, Davos.” Strong arms came around him, drawing him back down to bed. “The same dream?”  
  
“Always.” He collapsed back down on the sweat-soaked pillow. “I hear you screaming. I see them burning you. They’re killing you … because of me.”  
  
Stannis put his hand on his partner’s hot forehead. “That doesn’t happen anymore,” he reassured him. Davos seemed to melt into him, his panic ebbing slowly.  
  
“I know,” Davos said. “I don’t know why this .… I’m sorry for waking you up. I know you have to work in the morning.”  
  
“It’s just a conference call.”  
  
“Stannis, you can’t imagine it. I see your … your eyes, your hair…”  
  
“Shh,” murmured Stannis as he stroked his fingers through the damp hair. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Davos, holding him secure and safe. “I’m here.”


End file.
